this muffling quiet of softly
falling snow
all around lazy white
flakes, plump and solemn, steady
and unhurried, untroubled
by wind
untrammeled by unthinking
boots, cars, snowmobiles...
anything
except, perhaps, the tiny, delicate
steps of birds
saucy cardinal or little tufted titmouse
or bright-eyed chickadee
gone the robin, gone
the red-winged blackbird, gone
the noisy squawk of summer
winter comes soft
and quiet
and chill
Friday, December 9, 2011
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
dim interlude
haunted by memories
ghost touches
your hand
on my shoulder
your breath
against my cheek
memories, only
only memories
without substance
without shape
without warmth
cold, alone
I shiver
call for an exorcism
bright sunlight
and fresh breeze
and soft, soaking rain
banish these ghosts
again again again
ghost touches
your hand
on my shoulder
your breath
against my cheek
memories, only
only memories
without substance
without shape
without warmth
cold, alone
I shiver
call for an exorcism
bright sunlight
and fresh breeze
and soft, soaking rain
banish these ghosts
again again again
Monday, August 8, 2011
snooze
I kissed you last night
in my dream.
You were strong, and sweet,
and loved me like fire loves flame.
I felt the pieces come together—a new whole
from our whole halves
an interlocking
mind, soul, flesh
together
ignited with just a kiss.
And then somehow I was careening down a zip line toward a giant pile of sheep and the new girl from my department was there and we were singing Christmas carols and there were Nazis, somehow, and that hot guy from Band of Brothers though I could have sworn we were in Canada and then my alarm was going off and I
woke up.
in my dream.
You were strong, and sweet,
and loved me like fire loves flame.
I felt the pieces come together—a new whole
from our whole halves
an interlocking
mind, soul, flesh
together
ignited with just a kiss.
And then somehow I was careening down a zip line toward a giant pile of sheep and the new girl from my department was there and we were singing Christmas carols and there were Nazis, somehow, and that hot guy from Band of Brothers though I could have sworn we were in Canada and then my alarm was going off and I
woke up.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
beginner-level love haiku
1. dream
walking down the street
holding your hand. around the
corner, happiness
2. interlude
summer sun shining
leaves shimmer, gold-edged and green
cool shadows shelter
3. reality
I have smiled your way
seven hundred times, but you
never take notice
walking down the street
holding your hand. around the
corner, happiness
2. interlude
summer sun shining
leaves shimmer, gold-edged and green
cool shadows shelter
3. reality
I have smiled your way
seven hundred times, but you
never take notice
Friday, June 3, 2011
twin cycle tour
I wanted to write
you but now
I’m not quite sure
why.
Come home.
Yes, that’s what
I wanted
to say.
Come home, come
home.
The words churn
circles
spinning their wheels
in my
heart.
No logic behind it, no
concrete
reasoning, just come
come home, come home, come home.
Have I said that
before?
Perhaps.
Perhaps
I am not as good at moving on
as I think I am. As
you are.
You are always
moving
on.
My wheels just
spin.
Come home, come home,
come home
and solve this mystery
with me
once and for
all.
you but now
I’m not quite sure
why.
Come home.
Yes, that’s what
I wanted
to say.
Come home, come
home.
The words churn
circles
spinning their wheels
in my
heart.
No logic behind it, no
concrete
reasoning, just come
come home, come home, come home.
Have I said that
before?
Perhaps.
Perhaps
I am not as good at moving on
as I think I am. As
you are.
You are always
moving
on.
My wheels just
spin.
Come home, come home,
come home
and solve this mystery
with me
once and for
all.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
stories, legends, and fairytales part II
Thanks to those who joined the conversation—you sparked some good thoughts. I realized something I hadn’t before. Robin Hood stands uniquely in my mind for another reason.
I doubt I’ve ever told anyone this, but almost every childhood/YA story I loved and…absorbed, I guess you could say, sooner or later would take root in my imagination in a very specific way—I would “write myself in.” In my version of Star Wars, there’s a girl shockingly similar to me ramming about saving the universe. In my version of Little House…yep, you guessed it. Let’s see. What else? I was on Star Wars for a long time, for some reason. X-men. Yup, really. Little Women. Narnia. Redwall. Anne of Green Gables. Heh. Newsies. I’d forgotten about that one. The Secret Garden.
But I never wrote myself into Robin Hood—the story I claimed to be my “one.” I have been a sailor, a marksman, a governess, a squirrel (all the characters were animals, ok?), a singer, a spy—but never part of Robin’s merry men. Naturally, I’ve started to wonder why. Maybe there just never seemed to be room for me in it.
Or maybe because the story itself it so multifaceted in my head. There is no single streaming plot line to plug myself into, and no character that needs my help.
Wait—what? Hold that thought. Let’s go back to the multifaceted thing.
Did I mention before how many versions of Robin Hood I’ve seen or read? Hmm. Let’s tally. Movies first. The Errol Flynn version, naturally (delightfully ridiculous with lots of laughing with both fists on his hips). The Disney animated version (I love the Scottish chicken maid). The Kevin Costner version that I adored at the time (back when Christian Slater was so hot right now). The recent BBC series (so bad…and yet I can’t look away). Some sad, sad version with Keira Knightley as Robin’s daughter (there’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back). The newish Russell Crowe version (very good…half the time). And of course, Men in Tights (I have no need to ever watch that again, excepting maybe the song and dance about tight tights).
Robin Hood books. Hmm. I’m failing to think of any kid’s or YA version at the moment. They must have been there, though. My brain is calling up some vague memories of illustrations. Robin McKinley’s version is quite nearly great, but she’s had me on the hook since The Blue Sword. I recently read the King Raven series by Stephen Lawhead. Liked it. Took a different twist in history and did good things.
So…the point—ah, yes. All of these versions are different from each other, in small or large ways. And I like that. I like the three-dimensional picture it builds in my brain, and the contradictions don’t trouble me. I do not need it all to fit into one master storyline. But there is so much going on, so many threads, so many different outcomes and storylines (and musical numbers) that I’ve never felt a me-shaped hole anywhere. Maybe that will change in the future, I don’t know—I have yet to kick the “write myself in” habit, if you must know.
So why is it that one of the few iconic stories of my childhood is the one I’ve identified as having the most influence on me?
I don’t know. Maybe because it has no “hole,” needs no “fixing”? Maybe, but…I doubt that is all the reason there is. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that it just made me want to shoot things and climb trees, not join the plot line.
Well, they say that the simplest explanation is usually the right one.
I doubt I’ve ever told anyone this, but almost every childhood/YA story I loved and…absorbed, I guess you could say, sooner or later would take root in my imagination in a very specific way—I would “write myself in.” In my version of Star Wars, there’s a girl shockingly similar to me ramming about saving the universe. In my version of Little House…yep, you guessed it. Let’s see. What else? I was on Star Wars for a long time, for some reason. X-men. Yup, really. Little Women. Narnia. Redwall. Anne of Green Gables. Heh. Newsies. I’d forgotten about that one. The Secret Garden.
But I never wrote myself into Robin Hood—the story I claimed to be my “one.” I have been a sailor, a marksman, a governess, a squirrel (all the characters were animals, ok?), a singer, a spy—but never part of Robin’s merry men. Naturally, I’ve started to wonder why. Maybe there just never seemed to be room for me in it.
Or maybe because the story itself it so multifaceted in my head. There is no single streaming plot line to plug myself into, and no character that needs my help.
Wait—what? Hold that thought. Let’s go back to the multifaceted thing.
Did I mention before how many versions of Robin Hood I’ve seen or read? Hmm. Let’s tally. Movies first. The Errol Flynn version, naturally (delightfully ridiculous with lots of laughing with both fists on his hips). The Disney animated version (I love the Scottish chicken maid). The Kevin Costner version that I adored at the time (back when Christian Slater was so hot right now). The recent BBC series (so bad…and yet I can’t look away). Some sad, sad version with Keira Knightley as Robin’s daughter (there’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back). The newish Russell Crowe version (very good…half the time). And of course, Men in Tights (I have no need to ever watch that again, excepting maybe the song and dance about tight tights).
Robin Hood books. Hmm. I’m failing to think of any kid’s or YA version at the moment. They must have been there, though. My brain is calling up some vague memories of illustrations. Robin McKinley’s version is quite nearly great, but she’s had me on the hook since The Blue Sword. I recently read the King Raven series by Stephen Lawhead. Liked it. Took a different twist in history and did good things.
So…the point—ah, yes. All of these versions are different from each other, in small or large ways. And I like that. I like the three-dimensional picture it builds in my brain, and the contradictions don’t trouble me. I do not need it all to fit into one master storyline. But there is so much going on, so many threads, so many different outcomes and storylines (and musical numbers) that I’ve never felt a me-shaped hole anywhere. Maybe that will change in the future, I don’t know—I have yet to kick the “write myself in” habit, if you must know.
So why is it that one of the few iconic stories of my childhood is the one I’ve identified as having the most influence on me?
I don’t know. Maybe because it has no “hole,” needs no “fixing”? Maybe, but…I doubt that is all the reason there is. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that it just made me want to shoot things and climb trees, not join the plot line.
Well, they say that the simplest explanation is usually the right one.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
for me, from no one
I love you all the time.
I love you with dirt on your hands and under your fingernails—smudged on the knees of your gardening pants. I love the bits of twig and leaf stuck in your hair.
I love the way you drink conversational coffee, cradling the mug in both hands, looking not quite at me across the booth as you string thoughts together. I love the way you talk, intelligent and whimsical and humble and just plain interesting.
I love you when your feet can’t help but tap to the music, when you groove in the car—how you twirl down the hallway when you think no one’s watching—how your eyes light up when I ask you to dance.
I love you all the time.
I love you in the kitchen, apron-clad, both hands busy but not frantic, singing with the radio as you roll out pie crust or chop carrots. I love the way you offer no excuse when you lick the beater—and the bowl—and the spatula.
I love you when you laugh—at yourself, or any other hundred things—your grin wide and unashamed, or lopsided and wry. I love that it is so easy to make you laugh.
I love you with cheeks blooming pink with exertion, sweat trickling down your temples, gathering in wet patches across your back and belly. I love the way you lay it all out—as if you missed the memo on how to play like a lady.
I love you all the time.
I love you lost in a story, your eyes fixed on the words before you but your mind far from the chair you sit in—sideways, legs across the arm, head leaning against the plush, curved wing.
I love you dolled up and sweet-smelling, wearing a dress of your own making. I love the way you hold your head high, the erect bearing of your shoulders—your walk, how it subtly changes gears when you slip on your girlish shoes. I love that you still look like you, dressed up or down—always, always simply you.
I love you when you cartwheel sloppily across the lawn, climb a tree, scramble over the boulders. There is poetry in the way you run headlong down the big dune and straight into the lake.
I love you all the time.
I love you with dirt on your hands and under your fingernails—smudged on the knees of your gardening pants. I love the bits of twig and leaf stuck in your hair.
I love the way you drink conversational coffee, cradling the mug in both hands, looking not quite at me across the booth as you string thoughts together. I love the way you talk, intelligent and whimsical and humble and just plain interesting.
I love you when your feet can’t help but tap to the music, when you groove in the car—how you twirl down the hallway when you think no one’s watching—how your eyes light up when I ask you to dance.
I love you all the time.
I love you in the kitchen, apron-clad, both hands busy but not frantic, singing with the radio as you roll out pie crust or chop carrots. I love the way you offer no excuse when you lick the beater—and the bowl—and the spatula.
I love you when you laugh—at yourself, or any other hundred things—your grin wide and unashamed, or lopsided and wry. I love that it is so easy to make you laugh.
I love you with cheeks blooming pink with exertion, sweat trickling down your temples, gathering in wet patches across your back and belly. I love the way you lay it all out—as if you missed the memo on how to play like a lady.
I love you all the time.
I love you lost in a story, your eyes fixed on the words before you but your mind far from the chair you sit in—sideways, legs across the arm, head leaning against the plush, curved wing.
I love you dolled up and sweet-smelling, wearing a dress of your own making. I love the way you hold your head high, the erect bearing of your shoulders—your walk, how it subtly changes gears when you slip on your girlish shoes. I love that you still look like you, dressed up or down—always, always simply you.
I love you when you cartwheel sloppily across the lawn, climb a tree, scramble over the boulders. There is poetry in the way you run headlong down the big dune and straight into the lake.
I love you all the time.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
faraway land love poem
I will meet you in the wilderness.
I will join you as you walk into the dancing river,
your skin pale and rough as a birch’s bark,
your legs as long and straight as its trunk.
I am coming; wait for me.
Let the cool water refresh me also,
though I have not your grace, your way of moving
as smooth as shadow, as quiet as light.
We lie in the sweet-scented meadow,
in the golden green,
until the benevolent sun dries us,
until the heat of the day fades.
And in the long light of summer evening
we learn each other by touch, and taste, and smell,
that even in the darkest night
we will know each other by heart.
I will join you as you walk into the dancing river,
your skin pale and rough as a birch’s bark,
your legs as long and straight as its trunk.
I am coming; wait for me.
Let the cool water refresh me also,
though I have not your grace, your way of moving
as smooth as shadow, as quiet as light.
We lie in the sweet-scented meadow,
in the golden green,
until the benevolent sun dries us,
until the heat of the day fades.
And in the long light of summer evening
we learn each other by touch, and taste, and smell,
that even in the darkest night
we will know each other by heart.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
stories, legends, and fairytales
Do you remember your favorite childhood story? Was there one book, one character, one storyline that captivated you more than others? I like to think so.
Now, I'm not so much talking about stories you liked as a toddler or preschooler; I'm talking about stories that you just seemed to gravitate to as an eight or ten year old, when you were old enough to have (a tiny bit) of discernment, but young enough that your imagination still ran rampantly wild.
For some of us, it may be a fairytale, one of the familiar classics like Beauty and the Beast or Cinderella or the Prince and the Pauper or Jack and the Beanstalk. For some, it may be a broader story, a cultural legend mashed with history like Paul Bunyan or Davy Crockett or Annie Oakley or King Arthur. Maybe it's a staple of classic literature, like Huck Finn or Oliver Twist or...you get the idea. I hope. I hope you're resonating with this. Either that, or you're thinking I've gone 'round the bend (again).
Whatever your story, it affected you more strongly than any other--it seized your imagination somehow. You dreamed it, played it, asked for dress-up outfits...
And if your attachment was particularly strong, you still find a corner of your adult brain reserved for that story. It is part of the hundred things that shaped you into the person you are today.
What is my story? I bet you're wondering, by now. Fine. I'll tell you. It's Robin Hood. (Is anyone surprised?) I don't even know the first time I heard the tale.
You know what gripped me? Not Lady Marian, not the Norman/Saxon dispute, not even the robbing the rich to feed the poor. No, when I was about ten, it was all about two things: the forest and the archery.
And now...now I find it still holds me. All of it--all the hundred different retellings and variations and anomalies. If it's a movie, I see it. A book, I read it. It is a rich tapestry of legend, still growing and changing after however many hundred years. Action, romance, beautiful scenery, more action, smart alecks...what is possibly missing? (maybe personal hygiene, but whatcha gonna do?)
I'm still wondering what this all means, why it matters to me that I have a story, or why it matters to all of us to have one. I could throw out fancy words like archetype or collective cultural experience, but I'm just not in the mood. I might come back to this later. In the meantime, I'd love to hear your thoughts.
What's your story?
Now, I'm not so much talking about stories you liked as a toddler or preschooler; I'm talking about stories that you just seemed to gravitate to as an eight or ten year old, when you were old enough to have (a tiny bit) of discernment, but young enough that your imagination still ran rampantly wild.
For some of us, it may be a fairytale, one of the familiar classics like Beauty and the Beast or Cinderella or the Prince and the Pauper or Jack and the Beanstalk. For some, it may be a broader story, a cultural legend mashed with history like Paul Bunyan or Davy Crockett or Annie Oakley or King Arthur. Maybe it's a staple of classic literature, like Huck Finn or Oliver Twist or...you get the idea. I hope. I hope you're resonating with this. Either that, or you're thinking I've gone 'round the bend (again).
Whatever your story, it affected you more strongly than any other--it seized your imagination somehow. You dreamed it, played it, asked for dress-up outfits...
And if your attachment was particularly strong, you still find a corner of your adult brain reserved for that story. It is part of the hundred things that shaped you into the person you are today.
What is my story? I bet you're wondering, by now. Fine. I'll tell you. It's Robin Hood. (Is anyone surprised?) I don't even know the first time I heard the tale.
You know what gripped me? Not Lady Marian, not the Norman/Saxon dispute, not even the robbing the rich to feed the poor. No, when I was about ten, it was all about two things: the forest and the archery.
And now...now I find it still holds me. All of it--all the hundred different retellings and variations and anomalies. If it's a movie, I see it. A book, I read it. It is a rich tapestry of legend, still growing and changing after however many hundred years. Action, romance, beautiful scenery, more action, smart alecks...what is possibly missing? (maybe personal hygiene, but whatcha gonna do?)
I'm still wondering what this all means, why it matters to me that I have a story, or why it matters to all of us to have one. I could throw out fancy words like archetype or collective cultural experience, but I'm just not in the mood. I might come back to this later. In the meantime, I'd love to hear your thoughts.
What's your story?
Monday, February 14, 2011
a small midwinter rant
The choices I make—am I timid, lazy, or shrewd? Why is it that so often my behavior could fit any one of those categories? You’d think I would always know which I was being—but it’s just not so. I have an itchy feeling that it’s not usually the last—at least not nearly as often as I hope it is. Shrewd is just fine, but whatever I’m about, I sure don’t want to be lazy and scared.
How can I change this? The easy way out is to assume that all I need is some grand, all-consuming goal. Some mountain to climb, some passion to pursue. Then I could have a yardstick with which to measure myself. And isn’t that what we all crave? Solid proof that we’re on it, that we haven’t missed the bus?
But I have a sneaking suspicion that life isn’t all about what I do. It’s who I am while I’m doing it. Maybe I’ve said that before, I don’t know. If so, it’s worth saying again. It doesn’t really matter if I’m an editor or a skydiver or a shopkeeper. It doesn’t really matter if I’m married or single or the mother of six. There is no bus to catch. Who I am is deeper than that. Who I am is not what I do—or don’t do. I cannot find fulfillment in simple action. Action is the effect, not the cause.
Alas! Life would make so much more sense if I could live it that way—if I could dial in to my one concrete thing, like a surfer catching the ultimate wave just right and riding on home. But it’s not. I’m young(ish) and quite regularly dumb but I at least know that. Life is not that shallow.
But I’m not about to take that as a reason to sit back on my can and just focus on being. (Perhaps with some chanting and a candle?) No way. Such an inward, selfish focus is equally no good.
There is no excuse for not rolling up your sleeves and digging into this crazy beautiful paradoxical wonderful odd thing called life. We were built to do. But—pardon the sentence construction—doing is what we do, not who we are.
So who am I?
And does it matter if I know? Some days I really really think so, and some days…I do not. No one ever truly figures themselves out, no matter how much we navel-gaze. I don’t think we can. We’re not supposed to. We are the creature, not the creator.
And that, bottom line, is who I am. I am a child of God. I’m his crazy beautiful paradoxical wonderful odd daughter. Everything else is peripheral. He tells me not to worry so much about whether I’m timid or lazy or shrewd. If I listen to him, I’ll be just fine. More than fine. I’ve come to the conclusion that I can probably do fine all on my own.
But I don’t want fine. I want freakin’ awesome. And that is not to be found in the messages the world tries to sell me. I could be rich and skinny and madly in love and still—in ashes.
Is that my whole point, here? Maybe. If I must have a point, that’s as good as any.
How can I change this? The easy way out is to assume that all I need is some grand, all-consuming goal. Some mountain to climb, some passion to pursue. Then I could have a yardstick with which to measure myself. And isn’t that what we all crave? Solid proof that we’re on it, that we haven’t missed the bus?
But I have a sneaking suspicion that life isn’t all about what I do. It’s who I am while I’m doing it. Maybe I’ve said that before, I don’t know. If so, it’s worth saying again. It doesn’t really matter if I’m an editor or a skydiver or a shopkeeper. It doesn’t really matter if I’m married or single or the mother of six. There is no bus to catch. Who I am is deeper than that. Who I am is not what I do—or don’t do. I cannot find fulfillment in simple action. Action is the effect, not the cause.
Alas! Life would make so much more sense if I could live it that way—if I could dial in to my one concrete thing, like a surfer catching the ultimate wave just right and riding on home. But it’s not. I’m young(ish) and quite regularly dumb but I at least know that. Life is not that shallow.
But I’m not about to take that as a reason to sit back on my can and just focus on being. (Perhaps with some chanting and a candle?) No way. Such an inward, selfish focus is equally no good.
There is no excuse for not rolling up your sleeves and digging into this crazy beautiful paradoxical wonderful odd thing called life. We were built to do. But—pardon the sentence construction—doing is what we do, not who we are.
So who am I?
And does it matter if I know? Some days I really really think so, and some days…I do not. No one ever truly figures themselves out, no matter how much we navel-gaze. I don’t think we can. We’re not supposed to. We are the creature, not the creator.
And that, bottom line, is who I am. I am a child of God. I’m his crazy beautiful paradoxical wonderful odd daughter. Everything else is peripheral. He tells me not to worry so much about whether I’m timid or lazy or shrewd. If I listen to him, I’ll be just fine. More than fine. I’ve come to the conclusion that I can probably do fine all on my own.
But I don’t want fine. I want freakin’ awesome. And that is not to be found in the messages the world tries to sell me. I could be rich and skinny and madly in love and still—in ashes.
Is that my whole point, here? Maybe. If I must have a point, that’s as good as any.
Friday, January 21, 2011
a poetry study
A.
How to get
to this place how
to get
here
you are
slow
dancing with me
I rest
my head
your fingers
ghost along
the bare
nape of my neck
B.
How to get to this place?
How to get here?
You are slow.
Dancing with me, I rest.
My head!
Your fingers!
Ghost along, the bare nape of my neck.
C.
How to?
Get to this place.
How to get?
Here you are, slow dancing
with me.
I rest my head.
Your fingers ghost along
the bare nape of my neck.
D.
How to get to this place, how to get here. How to get here, you. Here you are, slow dancing with me. Dancing with me—I rest. I rest my head, your fingers ghost along. Your fingers ghost along the bare nape of my neck.
How to get
to this place how
to get
here
you are
slow
dancing with me
I rest
my head
your fingers
ghost along
the bare
nape of my neck
B.
How to get to this place?
How to get here?
You are slow.
Dancing with me, I rest.
My head!
Your fingers!
Ghost along, the bare nape of my neck.
C.
How to?
Get to this place.
How to get?
Here you are, slow dancing
with me.
I rest my head.
Your fingers ghost along
the bare nape of my neck.
D.
How to get to this place, how to get here. How to get here, you. Here you are, slow dancing with me. Dancing with me—I rest. I rest my head, your fingers ghost along. Your fingers ghost along the bare nape of my neck.
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